The truth is I am deathly nervous. It’s been a while; it’s been so long since I last sat down alone with my thoughts. Listen, writing is not easy. It’s like a wrestling match in my head. I’m in the ring trying to pin down each fleeting memory, each sacred moment. Sometimes I find myself literally banging my head on the table, forcing a word, a sentence out. Or I close my eyes and place my hands over them to block out everything around me so that I can feel the entirety of the thought. It’s easier not to write; it’s easier to say I can just live through it all…

This is the second time I've committed the grave sin of allowing dust to gather on this space. There is so much to say, so much to remember. But there is very little of me to write it all down, to build castles of paragraphs. It's not laziness, I've realized. It's guilt. I shouldn't be staring at my laptop and pounding on the keyboard; I should be caressing the face of my son, carrying him every single moment, singing him nursery songs. I should hold my life instead of write about it.

I look at him again. I've got it all wrong. His presence in my life -- his bold, perpetual presence -- must rouse me, not inhibit me. If I truly love him, I must pull out the best of me and stash the worst of me away. For there is a tiny tot that looks up to silly old me, asking me to show him the way in this mystifying world. I don't even know how to navigate it myself. But maybe writing will help. It should. It did before. It always does.

So here's to the words that will do me a service, to the act that makes sense of all the contours and challenges, to the art that captures the beauty of a boy, of a family, of motherhood.

May I never give up on it.

And may you never give up on me. Thank you for your unwavering patience, for waiting for my thoughts to become words.

What now?, I ask myself. I haven't even given birth yet and there's already that nagging voice in my head demanding an answer. What else are you going to do besides being a wife and mother?

There are so many articles floating around the ether that always seem to end up on my screen. Do you know the ones I'm talking about? The ones applauding and praising the superwomen, the supermoms, the superwives? I stand in awe of them, thinking how on earth they can do it all while I struggle to carve out time for myself (and I don't even have kids yet. Ha). Are they unicorns? Mystical beings? Am I just too ordinary? Too lazy? I click X on the tab because these articles just give more energy to that nagging voice...

Social media can sometimes feel like a beast, can’t it? But I have come to realize, over the years, that its attacks… they’re more like a whisper than a roar. It doesn’t smack you on the face and make you grovel on your feet. Instead, it seeps into your everyday thinking, controlling your moves, thoughts, desires. The chess player and the chess piece. We have become the piece. Or at least I have.

Facebook. It’s weird. I know that an acquaintance is stuck in traffic at this very moment, at exactly what intersection. I’m aware of a college friend’s blatant opinion on politics these days (is politics the new icebreaker?). I have an image of my colleague and her husband and children’s morning look every single day. It’s intimate, but not really. Personal, but not really. And yet I scroll...

It's been a while, huh? I feel like I've committed a crime, allowing dust to gather on my page with no update in site. For that, I sincerely apologize. But may I tell you this, friends? While there have been no words, there have been countless thoughts and musings and inspirations. Those beauties, I don't let them escape me.

But as a writer (or as I try to be one), I have the utmost duty to transform the fleeting into the lasting. To tell the stories, both little and grand. To weave the moments into words.

Needless to say, I have a few (or many?) entries up my sleeve and I absolutely can't wait to share them with you, to finally begin another tête-à-tête.

If there's anyone out there, on the other side of the screen, thank you for waiting. Believe me, I've done my own fair share of waiting, too. And every single time, it has always been worth it.